Snow Storm (24 page)

“
Yes. Nasty
business that,” Saville confirmed. “Don’t know the ins and outs of
it myself if I’m totally honest. Can’t pretend I was out there in
the thick of it so to speak, but by all accounts they were just
going about their business. Routine journey and they had to stop
for whatever reason. IED; that’s what got them. So often is of
course.”

“
Yes,” she
agreed, before realising she hadn’t a clue and only went by what
she heard on the news. They could be battling wild turkeys for all
she knew. It all depended on what the main stream media were fed or
in some cases cared to divulge. “Not that I’d know,” she added
swiftly, a slight twinge of guilt reflecting in her voice as she
did.

“
You don’t
want to either,” Saville said. “And really, nor do I. Not something
I’ve ever had the misfortune to deal with.”

“
Did you know
Marine Williams, Captain Saville?” she asked, trying to move the
conversation on before she put her foot in it again.

“
Not
personally, no. Obviously I was aware of the incident when it
happened. We’re a fairly tight unit. News does rather tend to
travel fast and bad news really hits home when it
comes.”

“
I’m
sure.”

“
Anyway, I’ve
asked around and he does seem to have been very well liked.
Apparently he did quite a lot to help those less fortunate than
himself when he was a patient at UHB. Kept their morale up, that
kind of thing. Not a talent to be underestimated I can tell
you.”

“
Did he have
any history of problems? Anything to do with drugs say?”

“
No, model of
discipline as far as his record goes. That’s not to say he wasn’t
involved with anything untoward. You can never really know what
goes on off-base, but with random testing you’d have to be a bit of
a fool. As far as I am aware though, he was a good egg both on and
off-base.”

“
He didn’t
leave under a cloud then?”

“
No, not at
all. He was honourably discharged having done his service to Queen
and country.”

“
Do you know
where he went to next?”

“
I really
couldn’t say but he certainly has family according to his record or
he did five years ago. We’re sending his dental records. I suppose
the hard part will be informing whoever he left behind, especially
if he did go off the rails a bit.”

“
Yes well,
all part and parcel of the job.”

“
I bet. Can’t
be easy though. It can be very common as well, this sort of
thing.”

“
What’s
that?”

“
Ex-servicemen losing their way somewhat, especially after the
kind of things they can go through with modern warfare. You know we
lost at least three men in that explosion? Another two badly
injured, Williams and another chap who wasn’t quite so lucky, lost
one leg just above the knee and the other just below. Not
surprising some of our lads get PTSD. How are you supposed to
readjust to normal life when you get a rude awakening to the fact
that just sitting in a traffic jam can be the prelude to a bloody
ambush? Part of one’s brain must always stay tuned in to
that.”

She thanked
him for his time and he assured her that the dental, medical and
any other relevant records would be with her shortly.

Now all she
had to do was tell Burke and hopefully manage to avoid the part
where someone had to tell the family.

********************

Simon Watson was not
having a good day. In the dictionary definition of good day,
assuming he slipped into a parallel universe where there were
dictionaries that contained phrases, this would be the opposite of
the definition, the anti-good day.

First of all
he was in here, surrounded by the joys of decay, disease and death.
Maybe last night had been the tail end of the worst day and this
was merely the aftermath, but it hadn’t started that way. They had
been going for it, having handed in the final essay due before the
Christmas holidays, one he’d spent literally ages on owing to the
marks he’d received for that last one, presumably for contradicting
that blasted hippy lecturer in a tutorial the week before. Bloody
communist. Who was he to say he knew all about the ins and outs of
Proust? He’d only tried to inject a bit of personality into the
thing, and now he was getting a hard time for not giving a balanced
enough viewpoint.

Give it time, Simon would
have a column in one of the broadsheets. They’d feel the full
weight of his personality then. Where would the lecturer be when he
was snorting his way round The Groucho Club of a Friday night? Fuck
him. Jobsworth.

The nurses weren’t much
better. He’d thought he could at least while away some time by
giving them some of his diamond chat, but real life, it seemed, was
not like a carry-on film, even if one of the nurses was a dead
ringer for Kenneth Williams.

They’d been celebrating
their arses off the previous afternoon. They’d all agreed to head
to The Alexander Graham Bell to get some cheap Wetherspoons booze.
He’d thrown up on arrival. He could remember that but everything
else was a bit hazy. He remembered getting confused talking to a
girl who said she was from Irvine but who he thought had said she
was from Girvan, or was it the other way round?

That was about the time
the short chavy guy had started on Alistair. Had he done the
gallant thing and stood in between them and the girl from Irvine?
Was that why he was here? It seemed likely the more he thought
about it, on the off chance she’d thought him chivalrous and wanted
to take him home.

Everything had escalated
quickly after that. Punches were thrown and then the fat guy
appeared, like some kind of Tasmanian devil, just whirling around,
a ball of chaos catching everything in his path. He thought that
was what had happened. He’d got sucked in by the gravity of that
ball and now he was busy trying not to throw up or see everything
in duplicate. Kenneth Williams had told him it would all be fine,
before dishing out a breakfast that would have had most people
checking out early possibly literally and metaphorically,
regardless of their symptoms.

When the
suited and booted guy stood before him his task was much easier
than expected. He introduced himself as Giles Herriot-Watt and at
first Simon thought he must be taking the piss.

Jones put in
a call to the Met. There was something inherently hard core
sounding in the act, so much so that she had to resist telling
anyone who would listen that was what she was about to do. It just
sounded cool; like she was dealing with the big hitters, rather
than simply making a call to London.

Williams
hadn’t been reported missing but his last known address had been in
London. His record was surprisingly blank for a man supposedly
involved in the drug game. Campbell’s theory was starting to look
almost as thin as his hair, though she still found it curious that
it all fitted together so well; the timing and the execution method
as well as the seemingly tit for tat nature of Karpov’s demise
following so soon. At least the fact that he was last known at his
parents address in Dulwich meant that she wouldn’t have to break
the bad news. That wasn’t conducive to a restful night’s sleep in
her albeit limited experience.

She got a
call back from a DS Carter, who said he’d dispatched someone to
tell the parents, who didn’t seem to think he’d been missing. As
far as they’d been aware he was a civil servant and just worked a
lot.

Social media
wasn’t being overly helpful either. He didn’t leave much of a
footprint. No Linkedin profile, Facebook account, Twitter, Myspace
or even Bebo, not that seemed to be for her Leon Williams anyway.
There was an accountant, a key account manager (salesman), CEO
(wannabe entrepreneur) and a film director (who for some reason
appeared to be temporarily working as a data entry clerk these past
five years.) Myspace revealed a musician, but one that was a bit
too pasty faced and a bit too folky to be her Leon
Williams.

She could
find no details on yell.com either. It seemed she was dealing with
a ghost.

“
It all seems
a bit spookish,” DS Carter said, having recounted the same
information from their end.

“
Surely you
mean spooky.” Jones said.

“
Do I?” he
asked.

********************

Burke had
almost given up. He was reaching the end of his rope on this one.
The chances of Andreyevich falling on his knees and confessing to
everything for the sake of any kind of deal ranged between slim and
fuck all. Edwards had his eye on the bigger picture and that was
only fair he supposed. If the guy wanted to head to a bigger
hunting ground then he deserved a shot at it, if only for having
the nerve to keep going in the face of what if he was honest looked
like a case that was dead in the water.

There was no
way Andreyevich was giving anything up, on principle as much as
anything. He could not be seen to be cooperating with authority, by
his own conscience as much as anyone else. Whether through
brainwashing or otherwise it was likely he’d fully embraced those
principles in full. There was nothing half-arsed about him. He knew
that now for sure. He’d needed something to convince him of the
Lithuanian’s commitment to his chosen order, to silence the
doubting voices in his own head and had gone to speak to him in the
cells, have a heart to heart so to speak. The older man was not, it
seemed up for playing ball.

He had begun to wonder if
Andreyevich in fact spoke any English other than the phase “no
comment” but confirmed the opposite to be true when John McKay
suggested as much in his own broad tones. The snarl from
Andreyevich, the look of utter distaste and their ignorance of not
only his own culture but his level of knowledge of others was
barely suppressed.

He’d brought the guy a
coffee, even gone to Starbucks to get it as a peace offering. Maybe
they could discuss things in a civilised way, like two grown men
while Edwards was at this point ensconced in Burke’s office, where
he continued to camp out with his two underlings and their various
laptops. The place was starting to look like an anti tardis; full
of gadgets sixties sci-fi writers could scarcely have
imagined.

He thought maybe he could
extract something from Andreyevich, even if it was only something
more than Edwards had. Had to be better than the square root of
fuck all.

As it turned out, Mr
Andreyevich was still not receptive to conversation. His eyebrows
did most if not all of the talking, both being raised as if to say
nice try pal when Burke handed over the bucket of overpriced sugar
syrup and milk, having guessed he was not a double decaf soya latte
man. Looking at him, he was more a double chin mocha. He made
several attempts at conversation all the while looking at The Times
on his phone in a “we’re here for as long as it takes” type of
gesture he was fairly certain only worked in films.

“
They say
it’s to snow again.” That’s it get him talking about the weather.
It’s not as if people who do talk to you can even be bothered with
that Burke thought. “Of course, you’d be used to that I guess. I
take it you get plenty of the white stuff out there in Vilnius?
Probably deal with it more effectively than we do here too. The
media do pretty well out of it though. They do pretty well out of
all the different types of white stuff it would seem. My colleague,
Detective Inspector Edwards, the one with the latest haircut and
the taste for skiwear, you remember him, he’s the one who likes to
talk a lot.”

Another movement of the
eyebrows.

“
Well he’s of
the opinion, Victor, can I call you Victor? What the hell, I can
call you Victor. We’re in a jail cell together. I suspect you’re
next cell mate may be even more friendly than that. See what
happens when you don’t answer? I just keep talking, anyway I’m sure
you’re no stranger to being jail gay.”

Andreyevich looked at him
pitifully.

“
As of course
your friend Oleg was. His tattoos gave that much away and I’d be
willing to guess his boyfriend will give a whole lot more away when
he comes in Victor.”

Victor stood
up quickly, too quickly, given the fact he was holding a cup of hot
coffee Burke had made extra hot by microwaving until it bubbled.
The syrupy liquid doused his sleeve sticking it to his arm and he
let out a yelp like a wounded animal. He tore of his shirt to
reveal his own life story in pretty prison pictures and Burke paid
attention, looking for specifics and finding what he
needed.

********************

Douglas
looked tense on arrival in the interview with brief in tow, tense
in the way that suggested he’d spent time on his own getting wound
up about this. His eyes implied he may also have tried to do
counter the effects with whatever chemicals his occupation granted
him access to. The bags underneath were grey in contrast with the
eyeballs themselves which had pinkened since their last meeting.
His skin was an off white, a shade Rachel would doubtless be able
to name at a glance. She’d spent time considering the colours most
conducive to the calmness and safe emotional and mental development
of their soon to be sprogg. But Burke doubted this was one she’d
ever choose to paint a nursery, certainly not with the infusion of
veins as sported here. In the end she’d settled for buttermilk, a
shade of off white he suspected Douglas’s eyes might soon turn if
he insisted on self-medicating for any length of time.